Sometimes I get a lunch break. When I do, I celebrate by scarfing my PB&J (let's hear it for regression!) and setting off for a walk in The Subdivision.
The Subdivision is new. There are large things (houses, lawn sprinklers, SUVs, waistlines) and small things (trees). There are hard things (asphalt, avoiding faux-Greek architecture) and soft things (dogs). Signs proclaiming the virtues of The Subdivision (and directing you to its sales office) outnumber pedestrians three to one.
In honor of the sbudivisory nature of The Subdivision, I hereby and herein subdivide my reactions thereto. (So there.)
1) A Girl's Guide to Desecration
-walk
-walk hard and fast
-mock, mercilessly, trees of less than fifteen feet
-dust off the more ridiculous regions of your vocabulary so as to counteract the restricted architectural vocabulary of your surroundings.
-never lead with your garage
2) Q: Why?
A: Fear of neighbors. Fear of not-so-neighbors. Fear of burglars and murders and dogs and disease and connection. Fear of your parents: out here I can do what I want.
3) Apocalypse Tuesday.
Biting into The Subdivision, you get a rush of indignation, followed by the mingled flavors of confusion, stupefaction, and dread. But the taste that lingers on the back of the tongue isn't any of these. It's post-Apocalyptic: empty, wasted, perversely attractive.
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